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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25063594">this photo of us, it don't have a price</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_verbena/pseuds/lemon_verbena'>lemon_verbena</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Actress Robin Ellacott, Alternate Universe, Club Owner Cormoran Strike, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Good Friend Vanessa Ekwensi, Inspired by Fanfiction, Matthew Cunliffe Being an Asshole</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:35:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,997</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25063594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_verbena/pseuds/lemon_verbena</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Strike says, looking down at Robin’s pink cheeks. “You’re always beautiful.”</p><p>“Oh, shut up,” she replies, scrunching her nose up at him.</p><p>“So tell me,” Vanessa says, gesturing her martini glass at them, “when did this happen? Assuming that this is happening.”</p><p>Robin giggles. Strike wonders how much of her bashfulness is acting, and how much is the excitement of pretending.</p><hr/><p>A continuation of lovebeyondmeasure's fic, "ready for those flashing lights" (written with permission), that follows the premise to its logical conclusions. (Smut. I mean smut.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike, Vanessa Ekwensi &amp; Robin Ellacott</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>this photo of us, it don't have a price</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417995">ready for those flashing lights</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure">lovebeyondmeasure</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dedicated to lovebeyondmeasure, who has graciously allowed me to play in her sandbox. I was so inspired by her AU from the First Fest, and the perfect setup that she crafted, that I just had to take a run at writing what came next. While I was inspired by her work (which you must read before this, I absolutely insist) this is entirely my own fic; anything you read from this point forward is built on lovebeyondmeasure's foundation, but is my creation. I asked her some things to get a sense for her universe, but that's all. </p><p>I don't intend for this to go beyond another chapter or two, but there's no telling where the muse will take me. I'll be updating the tags to reflect the content as it appears. Also, I don't have the whole fic written yet, so updates may take some time. Your patience is appreciated.</p><p>Thank you for joining me for this journey. In the spirit of the original fic, the title for this also comes from Lady Gaga's "Paparazzi" because it's true, there is no better song for it.</p><div class="center">
  <p>    <br/></p>
</div>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Strike watches Ms Robin Ellacott with something between amusement and enchantment; she’s chatting with her friend Vanessa, who Strike does know, and she’s throwing him little sidelong looks that are absolutely selling their fiction. He signals to the VIP bartender, Sam Barclay, for another round, and reminds himself that she <i>is</i> after all an actress, and can therefore be relied upon to <i>act,</i> but after their shared kiss in his office he finds himself hoping that it’s not entirely an act. </p><p>The look of absolute chill loathing he’s receiving from Matthew Cunliffe is buoying his spirits as well; Elin isn’t looking at him, in the way he knows she has of <i>not</i> looking at things, and that’s a triumph too. It’s all going really rather well, he thinks as he accepts a glass of whiskey and a white wine. </p><p>“Am I comping anyone tonight?” Barclay asks in an undertone. “Only these are expensive drinkers, Mr Strike, and no two ways about it.”</p><p>Strike shakes his head. “Just me, and Ms Ellacott,” he says. “She’ll be drinking on my tab until I say when.”</p><p>Sam gives him a smart nod. “Right you are,” he says, already moving to serve the tall Black gentleman who’s signalling. Strike likes Barclay, which is why he’s given VIP more often than not; high rollers, good tippers, and Sam’s keen eyes to keep it all smooth. </p><p>Strike takes the drinks over to where Robin and Vanessa are laughing about something, and smiles at them. When Robin meets his eye, he gives her a wink, just to see if she’ll react. Her blush, he finds, is charming. </p><p>“Having a good time, then, ladies?” he asks. He offers Robin the wine, swapping her for her empty glass. It’s the one from his office, he knows. She’d carried it out with them when they’d gone to join her castmates.</p><p>“Of course we are,” Vanessa says, watching them with her sharp gaze as Robin’s hands cradle her new glass, already full of her drink of choice. “How could we ever have a bad time here?”</p><p>“Why thank you,” Strike says, giving Vanessa a little bow. He enjoys playing the dandy, in his role as impresario of his club, the little hand-kisses and flourishes that create an air of the slightly ridiculous yet charming. He’s found that people underestimate him that way, and he’s not one to relinquish an advantage. Besides, it’s good fun. </p><p>Robin takes a sip from her glass and sways closer to his side; Strike lifts his arm and she slots easily against his side, sliding her own arm around his waist. “You really do have such a nice club, doesn’t he, Van?” she asks, smiling at him in her disarming way. </p><p>“Mmhmm,” Vanessa says, and Strike knows that if they can persuade Vanessa of their charade, they’ll be able to convince anyone. “Although I don’t recall you loving it the last time I invited you out, Rob.”</p><p>Robin rolls her eyes and laughs. “Really, you have got to stop inviting me out on the night before photoshoots, Van, you know I need my beauty sleep,” she chides.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Strike says, looking down at Robin’s pink cheeks. “You’re always beautiful.”</p><p>“Oh, shut up,” she replies, scrunching her nose up at him.</p><p>“So tell me,” Vanessa says, gesturing her martini glass at them, “when did this happen? Assuming that this is happening.”</p><p>Robin giggles. Strike wonders how much of her bashfulness is acting, and how much is the excitement of pretending. He turns to press a kiss to Robin’s head, using the gesture as a cover for a glance at where Matthew and Elin are standing. Elin is staring out at the dancefloor, and Matthew is glaring daggers at them. Satisfying.</p><p>“I should hope it’s happening,” Strike says, barely missing the beat. “At this point.”</p><p>“He’s upset because I refuse to be seen with him outside the club,” Robin stage-whispers to her friend. “As though he’s a stranger to paps! Besides, it hasn’t been that long, has it?”</p><p>She blinks up at him. Strike picks up his cue. “It only feels like a long time, I suppose,” he says. “Only a few weeks, really. What was that party you came in for?”</p><p>Vanessa gets a look, all of a sudden. “What, you don’t mean the party I threw for Oliver’s birthday?” she asks. “I remember you promising to take care of it personally, Strike, but I didn’t think you meant <i>that</i> personally!”</p><p>Strike remembers this party; it was how he’d properly met Vanessa. She’d rented out the private rooms, all three of them, and thrown an absolutely raucous bash. Strike had been on the premises, because it was his policy to always be personally on hand when the real high-rollers and tabloid darlings took over the joint. He’d lurked in the back for most of it, but had tended the bar for a while when Hutchins had had to slip out early. </p><p>It was perfect. And somehow Strike knew that Robin knew it too. </p><p>“What can I say, I’m a big believer in the personal touch,” he said, grinning. “I tended bar for a bit, and Robin here had need of me.”</p><p>“I needed a refill, love, don’t oversell it,” Robin said, a touch of an eyeroll, a nudge of her shoulder. “It was mostly just a relief to not be recognized. And do you know, Van, he didn’t even know Matthew’s name.”</p><p>Vanessa’s face brightens as she bites back her laughter. “A selling point of the highest order,” she agrees. “And you two look cute together. You’re both so—” she makes a gesture at them. “Tall.”</p><p>“Tall?” Cormoran snorts, his fingers absently stroking Robin’s waist. “Thank you, I guess.”</p><p>Vanessa throws back the rest of her drink and sets the glass down. “This is fun, Strike, but I’m claiming my girl now. You can have her back after we get some good dancing done.”</p><p>“Oh— Van—” Robin protests, as she is pulled away from Strike. He takes her wine as Vanessa pulls her towards the dancing, mouthing a “sorry” to her pleading face. He’ll save her in a few songs. </p><p>Strike takes a stroll, sipping his own drink and surveying his club with satisfaction. It’s his, properly his, and the fact that he’s bringing in a clientele famous enough to keep a few paps at the door most nights is enough to reassure him that it’s going rather well. He checks in with his bartenders, ducks through the kitchen to make sure all is well, and smokes a quick cig while touching base with Sandra, the manager on duty. Reassured that all is well, he makes his way back. </p><p>The lighting in the main area strobes to the beat of the bass, throngs of dancers grinding and swaying, while above them in the VIP area the lighting is more restrained, the dancing just as dirty. Strike takes a place along the railing at the edge of the space, looking for gold hair.</p><p>Robin’s rocking alongside Vanessa, the two women laughing about something— hopefully not him— when Strike spots. Robin looks back at him nearly at once, meeting his eyes, and shimmies at him, a clear invitation. He shakes his head just a little, and she shrugs and turns back to Vanessa. Strike enjoys his view of her as she moves, the green material of her dress clinging to her hips and arse in a pleasantly satisfying way. </p><p>“Enjoying the view?” </p><p>Strike turns to find that Matthew Cunliffe has chosen this moment to confront him. He’s surprised; he’d figured it would take longer for the git to work himself up to it. From the way he’s swaying, though, there’s some liquid courage in him.</p><p>“Yes, I am,” Strike replies, keeping his tone as neutral as he can. It’s a surefire way to rile Cunliffe up further. “What’s it to you?”</p><p> “That’s my—” Matthew hesitates, clearly unsure of how to describe Robin. He seems to have forgotten that he has forfeited his right to jealousy. He goes with, “Don’t pant over Robin like that, it’s disgusting.”</p><p>Strike raises his eyebrows. “She’s not complaining about how I look at her, and I don’t see how it’s any of your business how I look at anyone here, considering it’s my club.”</p><p>
  <i>“Your—”</i>
</p><p>Ah, he hadn’t known. Delicious. “Yes. Cormoran Strike, proprietor. And you are…?”</p><p>Cunliffe shakes Strike’s hand as if by rote, his muscle memory taking over before Matthew can think of anything to say. Not being recognized seems to have thrown him further off-balance. Strike allows himself the small pleasure of giving Cunliffe a <i>very</i> firm handshake indeed. </p><p>“Matthew,” he manages after the pause has gone on a beat too long. “Cunliffe. I— I work with Robin.”</p><p><i>Work with.</i> Hah. </p><p>“Oh, sure,” Strike says, releasing Matthew’s hand. “I think she’s mentioned you once or twice.”</p><p>Cunliffe’s mouth moves without sound. Strike thinks he probably shouldn’t be having quite so much fun. </p><p>“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Strike says in clear dismissal. “Do let me know if you need anything.”</p><p>He looks back over at the dancefloor to see Robin looking at them; her face has gone pale, made obvious by the flush of exertion on her cheeks. He winks at her, and she jerks back to attention, pulled into the dancing by Vanessa’s hand. </p><p>“Yeah, okay,” Cunliffe is saying, seemingly unable to come up with a better reply, and Strike gives him an anodyne smile and heads towards Robin.</p><p>“Can I steal her?” he shouts to Vanessa, who is dancing between Robin and her boyfriend, Oliver. He doesn’t wait for a response, tugging at Robin’s waist, and she steps into him easily. </p><p>“What was that about?” Robin asks up into his ear, as they move away from the dancing. “With Matthew, I mean.”</p><p>“He seemed to think he was going to warn me off you,” Strike says, leaning down far enough that his mouth is obscured by Robin’s hair. She shivers against him, and he files that information away for later. </p><p>“And did he?” she asks, as Strike pulls her to stand in front of him, between his legs, as he leans once more against the sturdy railing. “Warn you off, I mean.”</p><p>“Not hardly,” Strike replies, enjoying the way Robin’s warm body presses against his. </p><p>She rocks forward on her feet, bringing their faces together a bit closer. She’s sweaty and flushed, but she wears it well. Strike pulls his arms in to slide his hands down her sides, resting them at her hips; they’re a generous handful, and Robin’s face is <i>very</i> close to his now. </p><p>“Mm,” Robin hums, as if in thought. “So if you’re not trying to fake-break up with me, what did you pull me away for?”</p><p>“This,” Strike murmurs, before leaning forward the scant few centimetres to bring their mouths together. </p><p>It’s just as good this time as it was before, and Strike allows himself to focus on the kiss for its own sake, not as a precursor to more. They’re in full view of most of the club, as he had planned; odds are good that at least a few of the patrons below will notice them, and certainly enough of the VIPs noticed him pulling Robin aside to devour her mouth.</p><p>She’s sweet and tastes of wine; Strike thinks he must taste of whisky and his last cigarette, but she’s not pulling away. Robin sighs into his mouth and allows him to lick inside, their tongues twining, just this side of indecent. He pulls away, just far enough to kiss beside her mouth, once, twice. She blinks at him, looking— </p><p>Fuck, Strike realizes, he’s definitely hard right now, and Robin has <i>definitely</i> noticed. He doesn’t know what to do; if he moves away, it might be noticed by someone else, but holding still means continuing to press his cock into the warm soft give of a woman he’s known for all of an hour.</p><p>Robin looks up to catch his eye, her lips swollen and red, and debauched is a good look on her, he thinks. Then she rolls her hips against his, and <i>fuck, fuck, fucking shit fuck</i> he’s going to lose control right here, in full view of everyone.</p><p>“Robin,” he chokes out, “christ, woman.”</p><p>“Yes?” she says, so softly that if he were any further away he’d never hear her at all. “Do you have any issues? Anything I can help you with?”</p><p>His hands on her hips flex, pulling her against him infinitesimally closer. “Don’t start something you aren’t prepared to finish,” he says, just this side of a growl. It’s been too long since the last time for him; he’s at the edge of his self-control. “What happened to never going home on a first date?”</p><p>“Oh,” Robin says, eyelashes fluttering. She looks up at him, wide-eyed and guileless. “But we’ve been dating for weeks, haven’t we?”</p><p>“Fuck,” he says aloud, before leaning back down to capture her mouth once more, squeezing her hips to keep himself from groping any other parts of her tempting anatomy. The idea was to be seen, not charged with outraging public decency.</p><p>They stand there, openly kissing, for longer than Strike had really thought would be necessary. The problem is, his mind is ready to move on, and his body is ready to fuck the lovely Miss Ellacott right now, immediately. And she seems perfectly amenable to the idea, from the way her hands have slid up his arms to clutch at his neck, the way her hips are gently undulating against him.</p><p>Eventually, though, she comes to her senses, which paradoxically makes Strike want her more. She taps his shoulder to get him to release her, which he does, and she takes a half step back. Far enough to breathe, not so far as to expose his raging hard-on to the world. </p><p>“As flattering as that is,” Robin murmurs, finger-combing her hair off her face, “you’d better think of unpleasant things, so we can move from this spot.”</p><p>“Difficult to think unpleasant things at the moment,” Strike says, unable to stop himself from flirting even now. Robin’s look says that she’s both flattered and exasperated.</p><p>“Well, come up with something,” she says. “Or we’ll never be able to take this somewhere more private.”</p><p>“Not helping, love.” Her cheeky grin tells him that she wasn’t intending to help with that remark. Over her shoulder, he can see Cunliffe staring at them, so red-faced that Strike’s almost surprised steam isn’t pouring out his ears. “That’s helping, though.”</p><p>She turns to look as Cunliffe starts striding towards them, and the issue of Strike’s cock is solved immediately. Robin turns back to Strike, a hard look on her face, and whispers, “let me handle him, alright?”</p><p>Strike barely has time to nod before Robin is turning to face her ex. “Hello, Matthew,” she says, and Strike <i>knows</i> she’s an actress but the way she sounds pleasant is still surprising. “Did you need something?”</p><p>“Robin,” Cunliffe says, “what the hell are you doing?” He, on the other hand, is doing nothing to conceal his anger and confusion at all. </p><p>She leans back against Strike, who has put on his best “unaffected nonchalance” mask. </p><p>“I think it should be perfectly obvious what I’m doing,” she says. Strike can almost hear Cunliffe gritting his teeth. </p><p>“I mean,” he bites out, and gestures to encompass their entwined bodies. “This is— in public?”</p><p>“This is a private club,” Robin says mildly. </p><p>“That’s not what I—” Strike notices how Matthew’s hands are flexing, curling and uncurling by his sides. He thinks that Robin has probably noticed as well. </p><p>She remains steady and cool, though Strike can feel the tension in her frame. He slips his left hand over beneath hers, and she slides her fingers between his immediately, as though anchoring herself against him. <i>Fuck,</i> he thinks again, <i>I like this girl.</i></p><p>“I don’t see what my love life has to do with you,” Robin says. “You’re the one who made that choice, Matthew.”</p><p>Cunliffe’s grimace shows that she’s hit home. </p><p>“Besides,” Robin continues, “I’m certainly not doing anything that I haven’t seen you photographed doing recently. Is that Elin I saw you with earlier?”</p><p>Cunliffe nods, his eyes cutting to Strike, who keeps his gaze level. He clearly knows about Strike and Elin’s past.</p><p>“She’s pretty,” Robin says carelessly.</p><p>“Thanks,” Cunliffe replies, unable to say anything else without making himself look like an absolute tit. Strike’s awareness of his club is finely-tuned enough that he notices the changing traffic pattern on the floor below; a glance tells him that someone with a camera has it pointed their way. </p><p>“Have a good night,” Strike says, holding out a hand to shake. Cunliffe hesitates, obviously not wanting to shake his hand again, but the knowledge that people are almost certainly watching this petty drama unfold forces him to accept the gesture. Once more, Strike gives him a firm squeeze, and through his smiling teeth he murmurs to Cunliffe. “If you come here again, you’ll show respect to Miss Ellacott, or I’ll be needing to know why.”</p><p>He’s gratified by the way Cunliffe swallows and nods, trying to look serious but only looking petulant. When they release hands, Cunliffe takes the first step away.</p><p>“Nice to see you,” he manages in an even voice. </p><p>“Mm,” Robin says, still tucked against Strike’s bulwark. “Say hello to your sister from me.”</p><p>“Right,” Cunliffe says, and beats his retreat with whatever dignity he can muster. Strike can give him this, it took bollocks to try to confront them, especially knowing that Strike owns the club. Pity he doesn’t seem to have the brains god gave a sheep. </p><p>“Thank you,” Robin says, exhaling heavily. The tension drains out of her as she turns back around to face him. “Really, that went much better than I expected.”</p><p>Strike shrugs a shoulder, glancing at the lower level. “We were caught by a camera. He probably noticed it too.”</p><p>Robin raises her brows. “Is that why you shook his hand like that?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Strike says, noticing the way the lights glint off her hair. “Good shot for the pap, and let him escape with some pride left intact.”</p><p>“God, now I’m exhausted,” Robin says. “It’s already been a bloody day, and now this? I’m ready to drop.”</p><p>“I’ll have one of my guys call you a car,” Strike says immediately. Normally, he’d offer to bring her home himself, considering their earlier interlude and the fact that he’s not actually on the schedule for tonight, but… he’s not trying to push her, and besides, some space might do him good. They’ve only known each other a couple hours.</p><p>“Oh,” Robin says, then nods. “Thanks, that’d be great.”</p><p>“Did you need something else?” he asks.</p><p>She shakes her head. “No, I just thought…”</p><p>The way she glances at him through her lashes is hard to mis-read.</p><p>“I see,” Strike says. “Let me get my coat.”</p><p>“I’ll go say bye to Van,” she replies, and leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. Then with a flash of a smile she’s gone, back to track down Ekwensi, and Strike is left to shake his head. What an absolutely mad night. </p><p>The sway of Robin’s hips as she walked away has him whistling almost silently as he returns to his office to close up for the night. He’s done quickly, and he returns to the VIP section to see Vanessa whispering something in Robin’s ear that has her blushing and laughing. At his nod, she kisses Vanessa’s cheek and walks over, no rush, just a confident stroll that makes her look every inch the media darling.</p><p>“Ready to go?” he asks as Robin takes his outstretched hand. He knows as well as she does the rules for how to signal their relationship to the photogs lying in wait outside. They’ve laid their groundwork stunningly well, considering how much time and effort they put into the charade, which is barely any really. But between the photos of them kissing, him and Cunliffe, and their joint departure, plus whatever Vanessa Ekwensi tells other people, they’ll be well on their way to being an established couple by sunrise.</p><p>Robin tucks herself along his body again, matching his slightly uneven stride easily. She’s the right height for him. He wraps an arm around her waist, and they’re a couple in the eyes of the world. </p><p>“No going back now,” he murmurs in her ear as they take the side door out to the alley, where two enterprising paps are waiting in the hopes of catching snaps of celebs making a back-door exit (or having a torrid assignation against the wall). Third &amp; Out isn’t the only venue that lets out into this particular alley, so it’s a pretty good bet, and tonight he and Robin will be their payoff.</p><p>They ignore the paps, Strike holding out a hand as if to fend them off as he steers them toward his car. </p><p>Only once they’re safely inside, Strike peeling out into the street at speed as if to shake the trailing paps, does he exhale with relief. In the passenger seat beside him, Robin releases a sigh that turns into giggles, her whole body shaking with the force of of her laughter. </p><p>“You alright?” Strike asks, driving them towards his flat out of habit. </p><p>Robin nods, taking deep breaths. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, sorry.” She pulls herself together, straightening out the skirt of her dress around her knees and looking out the window. “Sorry, I just— it’s been a bit of a long day, and it just sort of hit me all at once, what we’re doing.”</p><p>Strike nods, taking a turn a bit too sharply to avoid a coke can in the road. “It’s a lot, yeah. Any regrets so far?”</p><p>“None that I can think of,” Robin says, and places one hand on his knee. Thankfully, it’s his left knee, so he can feel it, and— </p><p>“Shit,” Strike says aloud. Robin’s hand retracts immediately.</p><p>“Forgot something?” she asks, sounding nervous. “Unless you’ve changed your mind—” </p><p>“Yes. Wait, no,” he says. “I haven’t changed my mind, unless you do. It’s just—”</p><p>He hates saying it aloud, but there’s no other way to do it, so. </p><p>“I only have one leg,” he says, trying to modulate his voice to something normal, something unbothered by this. “Lost the lower half of my right when I was in the Army.”</p><p>“Oh,” Robin says, and he doesn’t look over at her to see her face. He doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking. “That’s— I’m—”</p><p>He hopes with sudden fierceness that she doesn’t apologize or thank him for his service. He doesn’t need it or want it, not now, not from her.</p><p>“That’s why you didn’t dance with me, isn’t it?” she asks instead.</p><p>“Yeah,” he replies, and that seems to settle the matter. She doesn’t ask anything further about it, and he doesn’t offer it either. “Is my place alright? Only we’re nearly there already. Habit, you know.”</p><p>She laughs, and the tension eases. “Sure,” she says. He hand slips back over to his knee, and her thumb traces a gentle arch, back and forth along the fabric of his slacks. It’s shockingly erotic for such a small point of contact, considering they were halfway to copulation earlier in his club. But Strike can feel a rush of blood traveling down to where her hand lies, and thinks that if she’s still amenable, the night ought to be rather enjoyable for them both.</p><p>“I have a guest bedroom,” he says as he turns down his street. “It’s rather nice.”</p><p>“Good to know,” Robin says, her voice soft and low. “In case someone should have need of it.”</p><p>She does not need to say: <i>because I do not need it.</i> He can hear it, though. He’s smiling as he pulls into the parking garage beneath his building.</p>
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